A lowly reporter's Christmas wish (column)

Orangeville Banner

Dear Santa, please deliver me some Christmas cheer this year. And presents. Lots of presents.
It seems once I started sprouting chin hair and introducing my parents to girls, you started skipping my house, and I was left with nothing but tube socks and zit cream on Christmas day.
What gives big man?
Had I have known that you gauge a boy’s interest in tearing through cheap wrapping paper hoping to unveil every item from the Sear’s Wishbook by his level of interest in the opposite sex and sad attempts at shaving, I would’ve held off on both.
At 23, my livelihood for receiving gifts is still intact, unlike others my age.
I partly blame my seven-year-old brother.
That little punk not only steals the spotlight I’ve worked 23 hard years at gaining, but also leaves me seething with jealously every birthday, Christmas, Easter or any holiday where I’m expecting a bounty of presents with my name on the tag.
I’ve watched time after time for the last seven obnoxious years, this spoiled kid toss one Lego set after another over his shoulder, waiting to open to the BIG box, while I’m handed a mere stocking packed with dental floss.
What are you doing to me, man?
While I’ll admit I’m too old for Lego, my list goes unnoticed each season while my brother can barely breathe in the pool of his toys.
I’ve had enough.
If you were hoping to cast the responsibility of gift purchasing onto my parents, you’ve made a grave error in that judgment.
You see, I’m the black sheep of the family.
My brother is living a more successful life at seven than I ever did, and my parents couldn’t be more proud.
He’s an accomplished and certified Jedi.
He’s a blue belt in karate. He was named rookie of the year, as well as captain of his baseball team in his first season playing.
What did I accomplish at seven?
I rehearsed every move to the Spice Girls movie.
That reminds me — do they have Spice World on Blu-ray? If so, add that to the list. My moves could use an update.
And while you’re at it, tack on about 30 generic holiday Hallmark cards.
If you can swing it, fill them each with a $20 bill. If not, at least tape a loonie in there.
You see, Santa, each year I’m handed cards from relatives, co-workers or friends that I completely forgot existed, leaving me scrambling through my apartment to find something suitable to pass off as a gift.
For this act of ignorance, I blame you.
If you continued to deliver to us adults, I wouldn’t have to do the dirty work myself and try and remember each and every long lost cousin who only shows his or her face on Dec. 25.
So all I’m asking from you this year Santa is to remember me.
If you don’t, I’d double check to make sure those are indeed chocolate chips in your cookie next year.